My latest helpful habit is taking my glasses off – for no reason whatsoever – putting them down somewhere, and forgetting where I put them while also being unable to see anything because – wait for it – I just took my glasses off.
This enormous stand of fountain grass has been the semi-bane of our backyard existence for a few years now. It’s grown beyond the point of easy control, and my body, in particular my back, no longer possesses the ability to properly tackle it. That would require some incredibly deep digging and physical exertion – and as I recently explained in a text defining a sweet invitation to a ‘Bingo Loco’ rave, “Gurl, I’m fifty.”
The days of whacking and hacking away at an enormous entanglement of roots are in the past – I can manage some surface digging and superficial pruning above ground, and that’s about it. That said, I’ll endeavor to get in slightly better shape before spring arrives and we start the growing season again. Is it sad to already be talking and daydreaming about the when we haven’t even started winter yet? Not a good sign, perhaps, but there’s hope in it – faraway and distant hope – the sort that will have to see us through the winter when it arrives next month.
The brilliance of this outside scene will swiftly diminish, as harder frosts will snatch the color from the leaves, and the leaves from the trees. Our focus will shift to the interior – where the attic exudes a rustic, tranquil white and gray scene, lit by candlelight and cushioned by piles of heavy blankets. The cozy season, blazingly at hand.
“I’m not surprised anymore by anything,” the woman sitting nearby said to her companion. I wasn’t closely following their conversation – this was the single stand-alone sentence that came to my ears over the drone of a song by the Carpenters (‘Close To You’).
Cafe culture is sometimes just a snippet of conversation that floats above the general noise and din, asserting itself as wisdom and truth and the declarative genius of the universe wishing you to hear those words in that moment. You can bring your own reading and baggage to it, or choose to ignore it entirely, assuming you’ve even accurately heard what was said.
Nobody really listens to anything anymore. That’s my dismal spin on the original quote I thought I heard – perhaps a more cynical take and view, but at least there’s some passion behind it. Anything is better than apathy. Apathy kills all. And to lack the ability to be surprised by anything speaks to a deadness of the soul I hope to never approach.
Hello old friends, if I may call you that, even if that’s never quite what we became. The term ‘friend’ is so broadly used, and it only applies to a select few of you who did in fact deign to incorporate me into your lives in some sort of friendship form. As was so often the case, this is once again me, talking to you, and just like old times you likely don’t even know and perhaps don’t even care, which has always been the way these things have gone. There’s some strange comfort in this space, however, at least in the mental and emotional place I am revisiting with this post, and returning to examine these ghostly hallows reminds me of them, as well as my own questionable behavior, when infatuation and the fever of a dead-on-arrival romance afflicted the simple machinations of going about an average day. A song then, long overdue and perfectly descriptive of my infatuations of all those decades ago…
NOW WHEN YOU SAY YOU WANT TO SLOW DOWN DOES IT MEAN YOU WANT TO SLOW DANCE? MAYBE YOU WANT A LITTLE EXTRA TIME TO FOCUS ON OUR ROMANCE WHAT DO YOU MEAN I GOT IT BACKWARDS? YOU KNOW WE’RE GONNA BE FOREVER WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME GOODBYE? ARE YOU GONNA STAY THE NIGHT?
This song very much personifies the frantic desperation I once felt and clearly exhibited in my dealings with would-be suitors and sought-afters. Back then, if a reasonably attractive gentleman expressed the slightest bit of interest in me, I would be off and running, heading in an unwavering beeline to the chapel, or at least a first date. And it was always too much, too soon, too everything. I didn’t know how to quell the heart’s riotous cries, and part of me still doesn’t regret expressing exactly how I felt in the moment. Why are we so ashamed to admit to the possibility of romance? Why is the keen focused interest of another person so repellant and off-putting? I’m asking myself as much as you, because once that focus sized me up, I often lost interest too. The foolish fickleness of human beings – make it make sense to me now; it never made sense to me then.
ARE WE REALLY OVER NOW? MAYBE I CAN CHANGE YOUR MIND… SOON AS YOU WALK OUT MY DOOR I’M GONNA CALL A HUNDRED TIMES…
In those days, and in my defense, there was often the slightest spark of an invitation, the whispered wisp of flirtation, the brief pause of a hand on a shoulder or arm, and the faintest hint or notion of interest ~ something to capture my attention ~ because it did take more than a pretty face to gain my sustained interest. Not very much more, but a bit. I didn’t just fall for you because you were cute – I was crazy, but not that level of crazy.
NOW I WALK UNDER A PINK SKY LOVE HAS FLOWN ALONG AND PASSED ME BY I POUR MY HEART OUT TO YOUR VOICEMAIL LET YOU KNOW I CAUGHT A BUS TO YOUR SIDE OF TOWN AND NOW I’M STANDING AT YOUR DOORSTEP WITH LOS ANGELES BEHIND ME IF YOU DON’T ANSWER I’LL JUST USE THE KEY THAT I COPIED CAUSE I REALLY NEED TO SEE YOU
Still, my level of crazy was certainly beyond that of most people, and I don’t use crazy in a derogatory manner. For me, being crazy was just another way of saying I was lonely, and I make no judgment or condemnation of either. My behavior, on the other hand, I do slightly regret, if only because it gave a skewed view of my intentions, and a warped take on what mostly counted to crushes and infatuations.
IF YOU’RE NOT HERE WHEN I BREAK IN I’M GONNA GO TO YOUR CLOSET JUST SO I CAN SMELL YOUR SKIN AS THE CHEMICALS SWIM I KNOW I’LL NEVER LOVE AGAIN I SWEAR I’LL NEVER LOVE AGAIN BABY ARE WE OVER NOW? MAYBE I CAN CHANGE YOUR MIND… AS SOON AS YOU WALK OUT MY DOOR I’M GONNA CALL A HUNDRED TIMES
Maybe I’m a bit too defensive on that point, and maybe that betrays something I’m not quite ready to admit, even all these years later, even after all this time apart. At its core, it always came down to one terrifying question: was I really that unlovable? If only it had only been possible paramours that made me ask such a question. If only the romantic landscape was the sole place such doubt and uncertainty resided. I could contain it then, I could compartmentalize it, I could pretend it wasn’t me. I could act like I wasn’t crazy.
I’M NOT ONE OF THOSE CRAZY GIRLS I’M NOT ONE OF THOSE CRAZY GIRLS I’M NOT ONE OF THOSE CRAZY GIRLS I’M NOT ONE OF THOSE CRAZY GIRLS
I know I came on strong. A fervent belief in the possibility of us – as a couple, as an entity – was just in my nature. I always knew it could work, because I knew I could make it work. It’s what Virgos do – we work, and we work hard, until we get it right. But a relationship – any relationship – requires two people, and I was a fool to think I could overpower or overwhelm that.
At the end of every never-to-be-but-still-hoped-for romance, I was left a little darker, a little sadder, a little harder, and a little less of the possible person I could see myself becoming by your side.
HEY BABY, ARE WE OVER NOW? MAYBE I CAN CHANGE YOUR MIND… AS SOON AS YOU WALK OUT MY DOOR I’M GONNA CALL A HUNDRED TIMES
When I look at some of you today, and the people you have become, I’ve mostly dodged bullets, and some likely horrible situations, and it’s in no way indicative of anything negative or wrong in you – we simply wouldn’t have been suitable together. It’s a testament to your sensibility that you saw it so much earlier. I see it now, and I’m grateful, and I never even wonder about what if, because the hole that was once there has been built around – not filled, because such holes can never be filled when they were empty in your past, and not erased either, because unlike a scientific understanding of emptiness, the feeling of emptiness is a very real and present predicament, and the space where it once pronounced itself, where it once made itself known and felt, will always be there. And I wouldn’t want it to go anywhere; I’m glad it’s there, glad that pangs of hurt still gently reverberate and echo to this day because they’re a reminder of how tender the human heart can be at such a young age, and how thrillingly the promise of possible romance teased such a heart.
NOW I’M ONE OF THOSE CRAZY GIRLS NOW I’M ONE OF THOSE CRAZY GIRLS NOW I’M ONE OF THOSE CRAZY GIRLS NOW I’M ONE OF THOSE CRAZY GIRLS
Cynthia Erivo reportedly wore a trio of fragrances while filming the ‘Wicked’ movies, and in honor of the imminent return of the witches, I’ve been concocting my own version of this for when Andy and I attend an advance screening next week.
That left ‘Witchy Woo’, which sounded much more intriguing. I was looking for another spooky fragrance to deploy at this time of the year, something to give ‘Myrrhe Mystere’ a companion for haunting the cooler nights. November can be tricky for fragrances, and I tend to rely heavily on ‘Bois Marocain‘ and ‘Japon Noir‘ but they can’t be expected to pick up all the slack. Enter ‘Witchy Woo’, which arrived a few days ago and immediately stands on its own as a fittingly bewitching scent.
Moroccan orris and rose absolute dance with cinnamon, nutmeg, black pepper, and patchouli – while elements of frankincense lend the heart a smoky resinous power. ‘Witchy Woo’ is a wicked fragrance on its own – when layered with ‘Promise’ it turns positively diabolical. (The Le Labo ‘Lys 41’ isn’t missed at all.)
Combining fragrances is new and slightly uncomfortable territory for me. I’m not usually a fan of layering or experimenting with multiple scents. While all the perfume counter ‘experts’ will extol the virtues of it, they’l say anything to sell another bottle. I’ve always trusted the perfumers themselves to put a scent profile together that needs no supplement or counterpoint.
That said, perhaps my purist’s viewpoint is too rigid for my own good – when I think of the possibilities that this potentially opens up, it may actually work against those craven perfume counter charlatans, allowing me to create a multitude of new fragrance options without needing to purchase new bottles. A whole new world of olfactory witchcraft just revealed itself, and I’m only beginning to flex these powers.
Yes, you read that correctly, as this is, by careful calculation and analysis, my fourth mid-life crisis since about 2014, but the happy news is that this one is a fun one, taking place mostly in my mind, and marked by giddy hands-in-the-air abandon as if I’m on some perpetual high, perhaps teetering to a psychedelic mania just this side of hallucination – and all without the sting of drink.
Skip introduced me to the following song, which is characterizing this particular moment of time in ways both exuberant and desperate. It spoke more deeply and plaintively to me than I was expecting, perhaps because my most recent mid-life crisis came with the death of my Dad and the aftermath (despite what this post tried to pretend) and that was decidedly less fun. By then, I’d done it twice before, and the first two were pretty damn near disastrous.
Julian, it’s a hungry world They’re gonna eat you alive, son, oh-yeah Oh, Julian, when their fangs sink in I’ll stitch you, but then I gotta throw you back in, oh
According to my therapist, many people, especially men, will go through several mid-life crisis moments – something she wisely neglected to warn me about when I was having my first because I probably wouldn’t have continued on had I known that it was only the beginning. (I also only-half-jokingly tried to tell her that I did not sign on for more than one.) This time around is decidedly less worrisome than the first three, as I’m aware of how to navigate the pull of drama in such a way that I don’t make life-altering/endangering choices. This one also comes just as I’m working on a project that aligns itself perfectly with the theme at hand – and whenever I have a creative outlet in heavy flow it’s like having a multitude of therapy sessions, all of them deeply illuminating and helpful.
You just try and sleep, even though you’re alone You just close your eyes, boy, you dream of home The light is always on, you just keep that in mind When you wake in the morning, you’ll be satisfied
As we are also in the throes of a Mercury-in-retrograde moment that looks to last for most of the month, I’m going to let the universe guide me on whatever merry-or-not-so-merry way it wants to take. A helpful bit of advice I’ve heard of late is to stop trying to force things to go the way you think you want them to go, especially if signs and people and gut-feelings are giving you pause. Give in to the pause, and just fucking pause. If anything is truly meant to be, it will be, and it will unfold as it’s meant to unfold.
‘Cause there is always a wrong to your right And there will always be a war somewhere to fight And God knows I’ve had some rough fuckin’ years Ooh, oh Lord, oh Lord, keep on keeping on
As for navigating this bit of tumult, it comes with the course of a fifty-year-old. I’ve reached the age where more years are behind me than in front of me, so the past will revisit and rear its old head, and it need not be so haunting and bothersome if we simply acknowledge it, and move on with the day. There is no way to go back and change things – life fell as it fell, and if there are still broken bits and pieces of destruction you either pick them up or kick them out of the way. If it doesn’t serve you, let it go.
So hide this song away for a darker day When you’re down on your knees, screaming “Oh, Lord” I am always there, you just keep that in mind When you wake in the morning, you’ll be satisfied
Unless this is the last day of your life (and if it is, what the hell are you wasting it reading my drivel?) another one will follow tomorrow. So pause… wait… hold… breathe. Let the mind go a different direction for a bit then revisit whatever might appear to be ailing you. Don’t immediately act when the dander is up; don’t change your life in the heat of the moment. This is how you get through a mid-life crisis – at least, this is how I’m getting through mine – and it’s my fourth, so I know a little of what I speak – but only a little…
‘Cause there is always a wrong to your right (yeah) And there will always be a war somewhere to fight (ooh) And God knows I’ve had some rough fuckin’ years Ooh, oh Lord, oh Lord, keep on keeping on
Mercury goes into retrograde motion tomorrow for a spell of seemingly backwards bullshit, and in honor of that, a song that stands on its own in the face of the joke of a band that released it. This is ‘Blame It On the Rain’ by Milli Vanilli (and written by the great Diane Warren) – some of us remember when it came out in the fall of 1989 because we were freshmen in high school, but my fifty-year-old ass digresses.
You said you didn’t need her You told her goodbye (goodbye) You sacrificed a good love To satisfy your pride
Now you wished that you should had her (had her) And you feel like such a fool You let her walk away Now it just don’t feel the same
The essence and melodies of the song remain intact after all these years, and the lyrics are more profound than I remember, lost to the Vanilli backlash of the ensuing years. It’s a piece of aural popcorn – a trifling snack that will never fill you up but is worth hearing for the fun factor. Not everything needs to approach high art to be worthy of admiration.
Gotta blame it on something (gotta blame it on something) Gotta blame it on something
Blame it on the rain that was fallin’, fallin’ Blame it on the stars that didn’t shine that night Whatever you do, don’t put the blame on you Blame it on the rain, yeah, yeah You can blame it on the rain
Operating on autopilot, as I often do these days, is the very problematic enemy of mindfulness – the antithesis of being present in the moment. After fifty years of living, autopilot is how some of us get through the more damned of days because it’s just easier that way. It takes away the effort of actively thinking, erasing the need for focused engagement. Even those times when we should really be paying attention – the car commute to work for example – are done without real cognizance and total awareness of what’s happening.
How many of those drives do you genuinely recall? On how many rides in and out were you truly engaged and involved? I don’t even remember the one I took yesterday morning. I know it happened – I was at the office. I know it was successful – no accidents and no speeding tickets. And I know I returned home after it was over too – but what went on at the actual commute, I could not tell you.
So much of our time is lost that way, and maybe the term ‘lost’ is being too gracious and exonerating of too much blame – so much of our time is willingly given up while we allow ourselves to operate on autopilot. How much richer would our days be if we paid as much attention to our mundane maneuverings as we did to our vacations or days off?
One of the tricks to being happy is finding the joy and engagement in the present moment, even if it’s in the more hum-drum and dull of acts like the morning commute to work. A shift in perspective, a shift in appreciation – these are ways to achieve a happier countenance – and that’s a good way to begin the slide into the holiday season.
Being grateful is more than a hashtag.
Being present is more than a slogan.
It takes a but more work too, and maybe it’s worth it.
Bookstores used to be my chosen place in which to write, back when Barnes & Noble used to battle Borders Books & Music along Wolf Road, but this country has seemingly given up reading and learning in favor of social media and bullshit.
Today, I find a blank space for writing at any cafe where I can sit with a cup of tea or decaf coffee and let the blog posts and project ideas run in handwritten trails across the lines of paper in a pretty Coach notebook. It’s so pretty it doesn’t mind my run-on sentences – rather, it indulges in them, letting me luxuriate in awkward and unnecessary phrases, losing myself in extra words for the sort of extra person I’ve finally learned to embrace.
On some nights, I’m one of the last people left in the cafe. I can feel the workers’ antsiness, the same feeling I would get when a customer came in five minutes before closing at Structure. How I loathed them for that, and the way they would sometimes eye me and intentionally pull apart a sweater wall I’d just finished putting in place. People do love their little plays of power, especially when they don’t have any of their own.
My march of words rounds the corner and winds its way back to where it began. Swirling around the edge of a coffee cup, it surrounds a wooden stir-stick, somehow stirring of its own volition, but only in my mind. I catch the reality of the scene before letting on what I think I’ve seen. We are, most of us, on the edge of going crazy, so we chalk it up to the surreal.
Another winter in a winter state is on the way, as we have four solid months of the frigid season in store, and it all starts in December, which is already only a month away. With the time change, the days end quicker, and darkness descends faster. No one ever seems quite ready for it, or so they say. I’m ready, I just don’t embrace it. Tough enough keeping spirits up when the light is high – this is brutal insult to debilitating injury. Woe to those the least bit depressed.
For now, we hang onto the daylight like some trees still hold onto their leaves. A futile effort, but how heartbreakingly human of us to try. Or how tree-like, since the trees were here first.
The outdoor ferns have slipped into their almost-translucent phase – the penultimate act before expiring, and one of the most exquisite and beautiful moments they carry. How poignant that it comes right before their demise, as if they have saved all their energy, and expelled the very last of it, for this time. They will shrivel up and turn brown after these few days, then disintegrate into the ground from which they came, leaving only some bent and broken stalks for me to clear come spring.
Spring – such a happy word, but how very far away it feels, completely over on the other end of the calendar. Best just to focus on the day ahead – there is beauty in fall too, and here it is.
